


We Meet Up Every Friday for Fish and Chips

by queensusan



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: FIx It, M/M, No Mary, Seduction, Smut, via fish and chips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-24
Updated: 2015-12-22
Packaged: 2018-04-10 23:41:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4412453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queensusan/pseuds/queensusan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sherlock's death Mycroft and John meet up for fish and chips every Friday night.  Post series 2 fix it fic that borrows from season 3.  Mary doesn't exist here.  ***Now with epilogue!***</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave feedback! It is the food that nourishes writers' souls, you know!
> 
> Additional Note 06/19/16. This is a bit of a long shot, but I'm working on another Johncroft story. The story is set after season 3 but before the Christmas special. Moriarty does not return and therefore Sherlock has to leave the country to pay for his murderin' ways. A month later Mary dies during childbirth, leaving John alone and without support- until Mycroft steps up to fill in the blanks. I need a beta reader who has experience with taking care of babies and would be willing to brainstorm with me. Help checking for typos and grammatical errors would be helpful but not required. If you think you can help me drop me a comment below. Thank you!

"Mycroft Holmes... has fish and chips with you every Friday?" Greg asked, his voice loitering somewhere between laughter and sympathy.

John winced, knowing he'd presented the situation in an odd light. But then, he found the situation odd too. "Well, not always fish and chips. I just tend to pick that when given the choice. To be honest I enjoy seeing Mycroft squirming in a dirty pub more than the cuisine. He's so posh it's almost painful. He brings his own silverware. And I'm not sure but I believe that he might have an MI5 agent in the kitchen taste testing everything that comes out for poison."

Greg was having a hard time meeting his eyes and the edges of his mouth tightened around the smile he tried to hold back. "Bit, er, unusual, is it?"

John sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. "It is, yeah. I mean, at first I just thought it was because he missed... well." John found the subject of Sherlock too painful to contemplate and hurried on. "But then every Friday he kept abducting me and taking me out for dinner. We were never friends before. In fact I used to think he was a right prat and I'll never forgive some of the things he's done. But even when I was rather short with him in the beginning, he still came and picked me up, every Friday. I don't know what he wants." 

Greg pursed his lips thoughtfully. "And you think I'll know?"

John shrugged and fiddled with the damp coaster under his beer. It was a weekday night and the pub crowd was subdued and the bartenders bored. He glanced around anyway, a paranoid part in the back of his mind wondering if Mycroft might be listening, somehow. One never knew with Mycroft. He squinted suspiciously at a woman at the bar who he thought looked vaguely familiar until Greg frowned and followed his gaze in confusion.

John turned his eyes back to Greg and decided, somewhat pessimistically, that if Mycroft was somehow spying on him it might help to clear things up between them. "Well... I think you might have a fresh perspective on it."

His friend leaned forward, eyebrows lifted. "Look, mate, I don't know Mycroft well. But he either misses Sherlock and you remind him of his brother, he feels guilty about the situation and is attempting to soothe his guilt by treating you to dinner, he's concerned about you and for Sherlock's sake he's keeping an eye on you, or..." Greg snickered and shook his head. "Hell, forget the rest. He fancies you, John."

John stiffened and felt his face flame, even though he'd more or less broached the subject with Greg to have his own suspicions confirmed. It still made him feel warm and confused to think about it.

He twirled the coaster a few more times before looking up. "Yeah, that's what I thought too. But... I guess I was hoping you'd have an idea that actually made sense."

Greg grinned and shrugged. "There are worse things than intelligent, powerful, rich and good looking men wanting to shag you, aren't there?"

"I'm not gay," John bleated, but when Greg just lifted an eyebrow John's shoulders slumped and he quirked up a guilty smile. "Okay, I'm bisexual. But enough people thought Sherlock and I were together that I didn't exactly advertise the fact. We never were, by the way. In case I was never convincing enough. Sherlock was.... asexual, I think. And even if he hadn't been I was not interested."

"Hey," Greg said gently, knocking his glass against John's in a heartening sort of way. "It's okay. I knew Sherlock for a long time and I never saw him interested in anyone. I believed you."

John nodded, but not in any particular satisfaction. Talking about Sherlock made him sink a little further back into the depression he'd spent the past six months since his death trying to claw his way out of. And he hated to admit it, but having something reliable and consistent to look forward to every week had gone a long way towards helping him recover. He'd needed stability touched with a hint of danger, and Mycroft had provided it. 

"But... I think you knew that Mycroft fancied you already, didn't you?" Greg asked gently and John sat contemplatively for a few long moments.

"Yeah," he admitted. "But... I don't know if it's a good idea. Sherlock hated him. There had to be a reason, didn't there?" 

Greg ran an uncomfortable hand through his hair. "Fuck, John, I'm not a relationship counselor and this is going to sound harsh, but Sherlock hated a lot of people for very idiotic reasons. Just... Sherlock's gone, John, and Mycroft's here. Mycroft wants to spend time with you and if you do as well I think you should trust your own judgment. Does it matter what Sherlock would have thought?"

He felt a flare of anger and loyalty to his friend that sparked and then sputtered out just as quickly. John looked up at him and smiled a tight, unhappy smile. "You're right. Yeah, of course you are. I can't let his fucking ghost rule my life." He sighed sharply and stood. "I've got to get into the office early tomorrow. This was nice. Let's do it more often,” John said, even knowing they probably wouldn't. 

Greg had had enough difficulty trying to salvage his career without borrowing any unnecessary trouble from association with John. It stung a little, but John understood, and to Greg's credit he'd not hesitated one moment when John had invited him out for a beer and had seemed genuinely happy and relieved to see John whole and more or less healthy in mind and body.

Greg stood as well, unhooking his jacket from his wooden chair and leading John out of the pub with an arm around his shoulders. It felt like an apology, and John didn't shrug him off as he would have only a few months prior. "So your date tomorrow might go a little different than the rest, eh?" he asked in what John suspected was forced joviality. 

John laughed, a little more lighthearted despite the awkwardness. "Christ, I don't know. It's still hard to imagine Mycroft without a three piece suit and tie on, much less in bed." As he said it, though, he knew it was a lie; although he'd tried not to, in his vulnerable moments, at the height of orgasm or in the indistinct juncture between sleeping and wakefulness, he'd thought of Mycroft. He'd thought of his long, long body; his wide shoulders and intelligent blue eyes.

Greg gave his shoulder another grip and then started off in the other direction. "You haven't even imagined him in his jimjams?. Think they've got little brollies on them?” he called over his shoulder, making John shake his head in bemusement. 

John shoved his hands down in his pockets and began to walk towards the nearest tube station. He'd only been walking for a few minutes when he noticed a sleek, dark vehicle crawling along beside him. It was like any other high end car in London but something about was familiar.

He stopped and wasn't surprised when the car pulled smoothly along the side of the road and began to idle. The door of the backseat popped open an inch. 

There had been a time when the sight of Mycroft's car had filled him with dread and resentment, but now it made his heart speed up and a light, floaty feeling inflate his stomach. He'd come to associate the sight with warmth and the presence of someone simultaneously overbearing and caring. 

Since Sherlock had been gone, people who cared about John had become scarce. 

John looked both ways cautiously and then pulled the door open enough to slide in the seat opposite Mycroft. It wasn't a large limousine, despite the rear and front facing seats, and their knees tangled together in the narrow space between them. Mycroft did not move his legs away from John's, and neither did John.

John was too breathless to smile at Mycroft, though his eyes did flick over his face, down his throat and lower, where his large hands were folded neatly on the handle of his umbrella. 

"One of these days I'll get in a car and it will be for the lady in the fur coat next to me. Or bloody kidnappers. Well. I guess I don't have to worry about that, anymore." Without Sherlock, and the dangerous criminals he'd seemed to attract like flies, John rather thought his kidnapping days were over.

Mycroft smiled briefly, his wide mouth flattening even more. It wasn't an attractive mouth, John realized that objectively, but it fascinated him. It made him think about those thin lips curled around his tongue or stretching over his cock. "That won't happen, John," Mycroft reassured John, and when Mycroft made statements like that it was hard not to believe them.

John felt warm and looked down, alarmed by his own reaction to the sound of his name in Mycroft's mouth. "Have I got my days wrong? Isn't it Thursday?" he asked, knowing perfectly well it was but unsure what else to say. 

Mycroft tilted his head thoughtfully and slowly twirled his umbrella. His fingers caressed the smooth, curved wooden handle and John shifted uncomfortably. "I was passing by and thought you might appreciate a ride home, John."

John's lips parted. The way Mycroft said his name, oh.

"You just happened to be driving by?" John's voice held a heavy dose of skepticism.

The other man smiled a little more genuinely and leaned back, as cool as ice. John had a hard time remembering the last time he'd found anyone so erotic. It made John want to ruffle his hair, crease his clothes, make his pale cheeks red. "Coincidences do sometimes happen."

John grinned and shook his head. "Bollocks," he said smugly. It gave him a certain thrill to be rough and coarse, vulgar even, in Mycroft's presence. "You were watching me."

Mycroft broke eye contact for the first time. He examined his fingernails where they rested on his umbrella. He flicked off a nonexistent bit of lint from his knee. "I was, perhaps, curious why you were partaking in alcoholic beverages with Detective Inspector Lestrade."

A great, delighted grin broke over John's face. He wondered if Mycroft had seen Greg's arm around John. "Were you jealous, Mycroft?"

Mycroft lifted a delicate eyebrow. His posture was relaxed and indolent but his blue eyes were sparkling and sharp. "Do I have anything to be jealous of, John?" he asked softly, and finally John could stand it no more. His impulsivity had always got him in trouble.

John hadn't put on his seat belt and so it was easy: easy to push his weight under his feet and vault across the seats. He put one knee on either side of Mycroft's lap, forcing the ginger's hands back and the long shaft of the umbrella up between their legs. He pressed forward, pressing his crotch against the umbrella and crowding Mycroft back against his seat. His head thudded back against the dark, opaque glass behind him that separated them from the driver. 

"What do you think, Mycroft?"

Mycroft's lips had parted and his eyes gone wide and for one glorious moment of triumph John knew he'd surprised Mycroft, had given the omnipotent man something he hadn't deduced. 

And then several things happened at once. The glass behind Mycroft slammed open so hard John was amazed it didn't break and a gun was shoved through, pointed directly at his face. Mycroft shouted "No!" and wrapped his arms around John and pushed them both over, squeezing John and shifting so his own body covered him. The umbrella, caught up in the action, jabbed at John sharply in the stomach.

"Stop! False alarm. I repeat, stop instantly. This is not a Code Eleven," Mycroft said clearly and loudly and John was still too befuddled to comprehend the situation. "Stand down immediately. That will be all."

John could see over Mycroft's shoulder and he saw a flash of movement through the window as the gun was reluctantly withdrawn and the dark window slowly closed. 

Mycroft drew up, though John remained sprawled half on and half off of Mycroft's lap. Mycroft cleared his throat and self consciously smoothed a hand down his waistcoat.

John finally found his voice. "What the fuck?" he croaked, scrambling backwards now out of his lap and back across to his seat. He sat and breathed hard, his hands rock steady but his heart racing. 

"I apologize, John. I believe that my security viewed your... unexpected actions as a threat to my person. A slight misunderstanding. They take their jobs very seriously, you understand." Mycroft's tone was cool and steady, but John thought he sounded shaken anyway.

John's mouth opened and closed like a guppy before he found his voice. "Christ, I was making a pass at you, not an assassination attempt!" his voice got louder the longer he spoke. "You have security up there?"

Mycroft looked, if anything, more flustered. "Yes, John. Perhaps I should have mentioned it, but... I didn't predict that." He sounded perturbed and uncertain. "You... have a way of surprising me, John. Not many do."

John's anger was beginning to war with a hot, sweeping wave of embarrassment. He ran a hand through his hair and breathed through his nose raggedly. "You need to let me out." When it looked like Mycroft would protest John shook his head sharply. "I'll walk. You need to let me out right now, Mycroft."

Something in John's voice made Mycroft pause before slowly reaching a hand up to knock on the window. It opened a crack. "My guest would like to get out." 

While the driver pulled over to the side of the road John slumped in his seat, staring determinedly out the window while his whole face was suffused in flame. As soon as the car had stopped he was scrabbling for the handle and stumbling out, ignoring whatever Mycroft had begun to say. He walked quickly, putting several feet behind him before Mycroft had managed to wrangle his long body out of the car.

"John!" Mycroft called and when John looked back Mycroft was hanging off of the car door. His fine, receding hair wafted in the night breeze.

John sighed and turned around, hands in his pockets and shoulders a little bowed, still humiliated but aware enough to know none of this had been Mycroft's fault. "Look, Mycroft. I didn't mean to alarm you or your security. I wasn't trying to hurt you."

Mycroft eased away from the car and walked a few steps closer to John and John mimicked him, drawing a little nearer as well. "John, I wasn't concerned for myself."

John remembered the way Mycroft had reacted so quickly, clutching John and shielding him with his own body. Had he known his bodyguard wouldn't shoot? And if he had, why had he felt he had to protect John? "Would your bodyguards have really shot me?"

"It was a warning only, John, you were in no danger." Mycroft remained perfectly calm, outwardly showing no signs of dishonesty. John didn't buy it for a minute. 

John glared. "Don't lie to me, Mycroft."

Mycroft pursed his lips and glanced back at the car. "They would have hopefully waited to see if you were a threat, but I'm afraid they aren't known for their patience. I do not believe it would have been a killing blow, if it is of any comfort to you, John."

He huffed and rolled his eyes but stepped a little nearer. "Are they watching us now?" he asked, eying the car again. All of the windows of the car were black and opaque and to be honest it had never occurred to John that there might be anyone in the car except for the driver. But then, that showed a rather shocking lack of foresight, it seemed. This was Mycroft, after all. He was the British government, if Sherlock was to be believed.

Mycroft's eyes grew a little wider and John came to a stop just a little too close to him. "They aren't paid to give me privacy, John."

"Good," John said and slowly reached out with his right arm and encircled it around Mycroft's waist while raising up on his toes a little. He looked up at Mycrfot expectantly and when Mycroft, with a brief flicker of his eyelids the only hint he was ruffled, bent down to kiss him, John triumphantly lifted his left hand and flipped the car off.

Mycroft withdrew a little, only far enough so that John could feel his soft smile against his lips. "Childish, John," he murmured indulgently and John stifled a laugh.

"Well they did try to shoot me," he pointed out reasonably.

"That is very true," Mycroft agreed and then delighted John by turning slightly and shooting the V sign at his bodyguard as well.

"Do you have bodyguards at your house, Mycroft?"

Mycroft hesitated and John thought for one horrible moment that he's misread Myrcroft's interest, but after a moment he shook his head slowly, his eyes intent on John's face below him.

"Security cameras?" he asked shrewdly and didn't even need the answer. "Can we cover them up?"


	2. Chapter 2

Mycroft's neighborhood was of the quality that made family doctors and former soldiers look like beggars. Although Mycroft's house wasn't the largest, it was above and beyond what anyone else in John's circle of acquaintances owned or likely had ever even stepped foot in. Even the sidewalk felt posh.

"Minor positions in the British government are not without compensation, I gather." John tried to sound unimpressed but he wasn't sure he was entirely convincing. "Bloody hell, was that Madonna?” he hissed as a pinched faced woman, clearly the victim of too much plastic surgery, walked past them slowly, her eyes sharp on them even as she pretended to be preoccupied with the tiny poodle at the end of the leash in her hand.

Mycroft scoffed but he looked more indulgent than condescending. "Ms. Ciccione lives in Kensington, John. Yes, hello Mrs. Holden. Lovely evening." Mrs. Holden flushed, pretended she hadn't heard him, and walked quickly on. "My next door neighbor. She's having an affair with my housekeeper, but she's terribly jealous, I'm afraid. Mrs. Holden is suspicious that I'm sleeping with her as well."

John blinked, shaken by how much like Sherlock Mycroft had sounded just then. "Are you?" he asked, more as a distraction than curiosity.

Mycroft paused with his key in the door of his home. It was a little strange, he thought. John would have imagined security was so tight entrance would require a fingerprint scan and small blood sacrifice. Out of the corner of his eye John could see Mycroft's bodyguard scowling at Mrs. Holden's retreating back, arms crossed, propped against his vehicle, before dismissing her and turning his glare back on John. He wondered how much of Mycroft's routine had been altered to make John feel more comfortable and felt the wild, inappropriate urge to stick his tongue out at the bodyguard in triumph.

Mycroft looked at John carefully. "John, I'm homosexual. And... no. There isn't anyone else." He turned the key and let John in. "It has been... a while since I was close to anyone," he said haltingly and John, who didn't always believe everything Mycroft told him, thought he was speaking the truth this time.

"It's been a while for me too," he admitted, and didn't explain further. Mycroft was a perceptive man. He would know that sex had been the last thing on John's mind since Sherlock's death, when even masturbating had lost its appeal. He'd thought for a while depression would rob him of his libido permanently until Mycroft had begun to creep stealthily into his thoughts.

The entryway of Mycroft's house was as grand as the outside had been. It was beautiful, but cold; it didn't look lived in, the way most houses did. It was a little too clean. Mycroft's housekeeper obviously hadn't been so preoccupied with Mrs Holden that she'd neglected her duties.

"You're disappointed," Mycroft said and John gasped and looked back at him quickly.

"No!" he lied. "Well... it's very grand, isn't it? It's like no one lives here."

Mycroft engaged the locks on the door and pressed a few buttons on an extremely elaborate looking alarm system. Actually, it was probably custom built. John wouldn't be surprised to learn that the right combination of numbers might launch a missile at Russia.

"I'm not here often. My work keeps me busy. Though lately I have tried to spend more time in London. One night a week, at least."

John's breath caught in his throat as something pleased and hopeful surged up inside him. He hadn't considered before that Mycroft might have had to rearrange his schedule just for John, or that he'd have been willing to in the first place. "You come back to London just to have shitty fish and chips with me?" he asked, almost wanting to be contradicted. It was a little overwhelming, to go from being uncertain if Mycroft was even attracted to him to the knowledge that Mycroft arranged his entire life around one evening spent with John a week.

Mycroft reached out and trailed his fingers over John's shoulder. He didn't meet John's eyes, instead calmly watching the path his fingertips took over John and the way John shivered beneath him. "I'm an obsessive man, John. Everything around me must be in my control and I find it emotionally imperative that everyone I care for be protected and cherished." Mycroft briefly looked at John's face. "Sherlock wouldn't let me care for him. I smothered him and he rebelled. I failed him. You should know this about me before we take this any further."

John closed his eyes against the pain. He licked his dry lips with an equally dry tongue. Mycroft's fingers had drifted down to his bicep, stroking so gently it was like blades of grass running across his skin, even through the thin cotton of his shirt. "Am I a substitute for Sherlock?"

Mycroft sighed, a soft, gentle sound. "No. I met you because of him, but you are your own person. I was... concerned for you, John, after Sherlock's death. But that's not why I kept coming back." 

John sighed as well, lifting his arms now to circle them around Mycroft's sturdy waist. "That's all I need to know, then," he murmured. "You've done a good job of taking care of me, Mycroft. Sometimes knowing I'd see you every Friday was the only thing that got me through the week." He pulled Mycroft close, resting his head on his shoulder. Mycroft tentatively brought his arms up around John; one hand tenderly smoothed over his hair, now more gray than when they'd first met. "Will you take me to bed, Mycroft?"

Mycroft pulled away, though he kept one hand on John as he led him up the stairs and to the second doorway on the right. Mycroft's room was like the rest of his home, large and posh, but it held a certain warmth the rest seemed to lack. Perhaps it was simply that this was one of the few rooms Mycroft visited while he was at home, leaving behind him a few detritus of life: a pair of reading glasses on his bedside table; an abandoned tissue; warm, comfy slippers that looked like they'd seen better days.

Mycroft's bed was large and wide, a bed built to be shared, and when he lay down on it he looked very solitary. His seemed a lonely life, to John. But then he'd been lonely as well and it felt so good to not be isolated anymore.

The serious conversation in the entryway had dampened his desire, but it was coming back to him now. Mycroft looked less powerful and more vulnerable sprawled out on his bed, fully clothed. 

John kicked off his shoes and crawled up his long legs to settle astride his lap. Mycroft's soft, caressing hands were on him at once. He liked the way Mycroft's big hands felt on him, how they spread warmth over his skin even through his layers of clothing. He brushed his hands up John's flanks and then reached around behind him, firmly grasping each arse cheek in his palms and using the leverage to pull John closer up against his groin.

He laughed breathlessly and ground down, finding an answering stirring of interest below him. He hadn't had sex with a man in years, and though he'd been fairly enthusiastically bisexual in his uni and army days, it seemed like a very long time ago now. 

“When was the last time you were intimate with a man?” Mycroft asked, as though he'd read John's mind. _Just like Sherlock._ But not precisely like Sherlock. He knew Mycroft was as skilled at deduction at his brother ever had been, but unlike Sherlock, Mycroft knew when to keep his knowledge to himself. Just as well. John would only tolerate so much deduction in bed.

“A while,” John murmured and then gasped as Mycroft's hand guided him into a gentle, rolling rhythm that ground them together in a pleasant, leisurely sort of way. “The army.”

“We can do anything you like,” Mycroft said kindly, clearly under the impression John was reticent about diving back into homosexuality. It made the combative, contrary side of his nature rear its head. 

John grasped Mycroft's necktie and yanked him forward. Before their mouths collided he had the deep satisfaction of watching Mycroft's eyebrows momentarily arch up in surprise. And then their teeth were clashing and their tongues were warring for dominance. He twisted the necktie in his hand, just tight enough to make Mycroft pause before he released him and began to work at the knot of the tie. He roughly undid it then unbuttoned Mycroft's shirt with more swiftness than care.

He detached himself from Mycroft's mouth and dove hungrily for his neck, nipping and mouthing at his pulse point and then down to the juncture of his neck and shoulder. 

“Don't condescend to me, Mycroft,” he growled against his flesh and Mycroft let out a breathless chuckle.

“I thought I was being considerate,” he murmured while his hands worked their way into the back of John's jeans. He got a good grip on his backside and John arched back into his touch. 

John laughed and licked more gently at Mycroft's lips. His hands slowed on his clothing and he carefully pushed the suit jacket and shirt down over Mycroft's shoulders. “I haven't forgotten how to fuck men, Mycroft.”

Mycroft had closed his eyes under John's touch. A soft, pleased smile graced his lips. “Are you going to fuck me, John?” It was shockingly erotic to hear the vulgarity come from Mycroft's mouth and it made John feel wild.

John deliberately leaned down, slowly. His breath ghosted over Mycroft's mouth, teasing him. “Yes,” he breathed against his lips and then when they parted he slipped his tongue inside and kissed him deeply. Mycroft was working on John's flies with shaking hands now and John joined him, making a more deliberate effort at ridding them of their clothing. Soon Mycroft was kicking off his socks and John tossing his t-shirt on the floor after them and there was nothing between them but too much space.

They spent a few moments observing the other in that way new lovers do, appreciating each other's nude bodies. Mycroft wasn't fat, no matter what Sherlock had always insinuated, but he was more solid than his brother had been. He was lean but well built, broader in the shoulders and chest. He wasn't extremely muscular but he was firm with only a little of the softness to be expected from middle age. John's own middle had gone a bit pudgy after his retirement from the army, so he couldn't judge.

Mycroft seemed equally pleased with John as he ran a reverent hand over John's bicep, skated over his scar and then let the hand drift over his chest before landing squarely on his groin. John gasped and arched into the touch, letting Mycroft's big hand warm his cock through the layers of denim.

“Condoms in the bedside drawer,” Mycroft offered lethargically. Arousal seemed to have turned Mycroft lazy, like an overly pleased cat laying in the sun. 

John smirked to himself, remembering Sherlock's repeated claims of Mycroft's laziness, and leaned over the rummage in the drawer. He shuffled through electronic devices that looked like pagers and cell phones and could probably topple the governments of small countries until he found, at the back, a few condoms and a bottle of lube. He had to check the expiration date on the condoms because they looked a bit old, lending credibility to Mycroft's claim of celibacy, but they were fine. 

John leaned back and slid a hand from Mycroft's knee up to his hip and then to his prick, which had thickened in anticipation, and gave a little twitch as blood pumped into it. John curled over his lap and licked a stripe up Mycroft's half hard cock, making the older man give a soft moan of pleasure before John dropped lower, brushing his lips against Mycroft's testicles, nuzzling up against his crotch until his pubic hairs tickled his nose and he withdrew.

"John," Mycroft breathed and John backed up only enough to slide his lips around Mycroft's half hard erection. The man above him sucked air in sharply and arched against the sheets, as though wanting to push inside his mouth but too much of a gentleman to do so. John dipped down, taking him all the way in while he still could, before he grew beyond John's ability to swallow. He'd used to pride himself on his fellatio techniques, but it had been too long and he didn't trust himself without practice. Mycroft didn't seem to mind, anyway, as he groaned luxuriously while John worked him up to full hardness. 

When Mycroft was short of breath and thrusting slightly against him, John drew off with a satisfied pop. Mycroft eyes fluttered open and one glance seemed enough to tell him when John released him and he drew a long leg up, to give John room to touch him below. It was tempting, more than- the idea of those long, muscular legs wrapped around his waist while he thrust inside him made his mouth a little dry with desire. 

"You have plans," Mycroft said shrewdly, having obviously seen the conflict on John's face and deduced that matters weren't what he'd been expecting. 

John only nodded before crawling over Mycroft to straddle his ribs. Mycroft's eyebrows rose but he looked pleased. He brought his hands up and began to run them over John's body in that soft, caressing way of his that made John shiver. 

"You're going to ride me. The position of superior height, given our size difference, gives you the illusion of control?"

Fantasy abruptly shattered, John paused to give him a disgusted look. "New rule, Mycroft. No deducing in bed- out loud, at any rate. Give me the pretense of spontaneity. Hand."

Mycroft obediently offered up a hand and John poured some lube on two fingers. While Mycroft reached around him and rubbed gently at his hole while the lube warmed up, John braced a hand on Mycroft's shoulder and looked down at him. He gently ran his fingers over Mycroft's eyebrows, smoothing them down, then over his long nose and over his cheekbones. Mycroft looked away from where his hand disappeared behind John body and looked up at him curiously. 

John couldn't help but smile when he realized he was happy. Actually happy for the first time in so long. Mycroft's face softened and John knew he could read it in his expression, though he held to the rules of no deducing. "You can deduce a little. As long as it isn't unflattering," he conceded and Mycroft's face broke into one of his rare, small smiles.

"You're pleased to be here. This makes you feel good."

John backed up against Mycroft's fingers pointedly and when Mycroft slowly slid one long digit in he sighed. "Yes," he said, shifting himself so that he could rock back on Mycroft's finger. "Don't be shy, I'll take another."

A second finger felt good too, the stretch and burn calling to mind happy times from his youth when a couple beers and a little flirting were all it took to get him in the mood for a shag. Mycroft brought his other hand up to touch John's cock, his hand clasping warmly around him. Mycroft pumped John a few times before fondling the head and running his fingertips over the retracted foreskin. He wormed another finger in beside the first one and let John set the pace, rocking back and forth. The moved together smoothly, a roll and slide that felt exciting and familiar at the same time.

“You're ready,” Mycroft said, more hope than statement.

"You're a big boy," John said, a little doubtfully. He scooted back so he could crouch around Mycroft's thighs and examine the specimen. Mycroft's cock was long and thick with a narrow, pointed head that was slimmer than the shaft. John circled his fingers around the shaft admiringly and found he couldn't close them. "You're wrong about me, Mycroft. I'm not insecure that you're larger than I am." He looked coyly up at Mycroft and found him interested.

John leaned over him and braced his hands on Mycroft's biceps. “There is no illusion of control.” He pushed down, pressing his weight down on Mycroft, not enough to hurt but enough to make Mycroft go pliant and hungry eyed. “I _am_ in control.”

“Interesting,” Mycroft murmured, but John thought his air of coolness was an act. His cheeks were red and his eyes were dark with arousal and when he got his feet under him he pushed up into John so that his cock slid against his wet arse. He wanted him and it was a powerful feeling, to make someone like Mycroft desperate.

John grabbed one of the condoms and pushed it down over Mycroft's cock and hastily topped it with more lube before hovering back over him. 

“Ready?” Mycroft asked, his hand already reaching down to hold his cock steady for John.

“You already know I am,” John said, knowing the brother of Sherlock Holmes had known when John had deemed himself adequately stretched probably before even John had. 

Mycroft smirked. “It's only polite to ask,” he said and John began to lower himself onto him. 

As Mycroft's not insignificant shaft pierced him they both let out hearty, unashamed moans. It wasn't comfortable, but it was a feeling John had always enjoyed. There was something so erotic about the overwhelming, heavy weight of a cock, hot and stinging, up his arse. It made his fight or flight instincts kick into overdrive- and John always fought.

John bucked up against him hard and raked his blunt fingernails against Mycroft's chest. He growled and clamped down, making Mycroft's eyes fly wide and his hips shudder up into him. John arched his body and writhed, pushing up and down on Mycroft's dick until the strain was good instead of painful. While John enthusiastically fucked himself on Mycroft's dick he kept up a litany of dirty talk. “Fuck me like you mean it, Mycroft, or _I'm_ gonna fuck you up,” he growled, eyes on fire and body writhing over Mycroft, as desperate as a wolf with his paw in a trap.

“John!” Mycroft cried in what John thought was genuine surprise before John dropped, bending over so their chests were parallel. 

“Fuck me, Mycroft,” he gasped, his lips pressed against Mycroft's neck and jaw.

“Oh-God,” Mycroft groaned, his composure now totally shot. He locked his arms around John's waist, got his feet on the mattress and pushed into John, almost hard enough to buck him off. John clung on doggedly and buried his face in Mycroft's shoulder as the older man found a rhythm. The bed frame began to rock with the force of his thrusts and John's cock was being pressed and squeezed tightly between their bodies. Mycroft's cock was rubbing from within in all the right places and it was just so good, so- It was too soon, God, he'd be embarrassed tomorrow, but it had been so long and...

“Oh, fuck, oh- Mycroft!” John shout was muffled by Mycroft's skin as his cock went off like a rocket, spewing come between their bellies. Mycroft got in a few more thrusts before John whimpered and shifted, too sensitive to endure the pounding. They both chuckled breathlessly, the awkwardness of sex tempered by the humor of maturity, and John sat up stiffly and crawled off of Mycroft. His swollen cock slid from John's body with a wet noise and slapped against his heaving abdomen. John grinned, stripped the cock of the condom and bent over.

“Oh my god,” he heard Mycroft murmur before he took the head in his mouth and slowly began to bob up and down, taking him more deeply as he went. He was loose limbed and lazy with orgasm; the fellatio lacked finesse, but he kept the suction tight and his tongue mobile and used his hands to make up for the rest. Soon Mycroft was squirming restlessly below him and John cradled his testicles and attacked the head and frenulum with purpose.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw one of Mycroft's hands hit the bedspread and clench, wrinkling up the expensive duvet. Otherwise his face remained firm and composed- but almost as though he were trying too hard. It was so invigorating to make a man like Mycroft lose himself in the moment- like dodging bullets. Like chasing criminals.

Mycroft managed to get one hand up to softly touch John's hair before he let out a moan like he was dying and a pulse of come shot across John's tongue. He let him shoot in his mouth until Mycroft's soft cries faded and, for lack of a better receptacle, spat his come into one of the used tissues on Mycroft's nightstand. 

John fell back beside Mycroft, who was watching him with half lidded, amused eyes. His wide, kiss swollen mouth was parted around his quick breathing and he looked immensely satisfied.

John propped his chin on his knuckles and smiled at Mycroft. “Mycroft, did you imagine this? How we'd be together?”

Mycroft mirrored John's pose. They faced each other then, too close for friends. Mycroft's breath, a touch sour from coffee, brushed against his face. He nodded.

“Was it like you imagined?”

Mycroft smirked. “Not exactly,” he admitted.

John lay back, pleased and satisfied now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for how long it took me to update this. I feel like I lost my smut mojo with this pairing, though I don't know why- in my head I find them very sensual together, but it didn't seem to come out right when I wrote it. Hope it satisfies anyway! Now for the last part, where Things are revealed.


	3. Chapter 3

1.5 years later

John arose from sleep like a man breaking the surface of a still water, a small ripple in a wide expanse of peace. He felt refreshed and exhilarated. His body ached a little from the passion of Mycroft's lovemaking the night previous and he'd slept deeply, exhausted and content. It had been the sort of homecoming that had made Mycroft's two week absence almost worth it, even though it had been the longest he'd gone without seeing him since before Sherlock's death.

When John turned rolled over in the bed he found, to his mild surprise, that while Mycroft was awake, he didn't seem to be doing anything. It always seemed as though Mycroft was working unless he was actively engaged with John, with ominous looking confidential folders in his hands or his cellphone lighting his face in a cool toned glow. Now his hands were still, resting on the duvet. They looked a little defeated with nothing to occupy them, strangely, but John dismissed the fanciful thought.

There was a line between Mycroft's eyebrows and his face was pinched and a little pensive, though his expression softened when John smiled sleepily up at him. “I'm glad you're back,” he said, not for the first time, but feeling the wave of happiness and affection surge in him anew after two weeks of waking up to an empty, too large bed.

“I missed you,” Mycroft said, and John's eyebrows lifted in surprise. Mycroft did not normally speak openly about his emotions, despite never leaving John in any doubt of his affection. 

“Will you be home for a while?” John asked, uncertain of Mycroft's strange mood and wondering if his lover was feeling guilty over further abandonment. 

Mycroft nodded and reached out a hand, running it thoughtfully over John chest and shoulders. It was nice, and John turned to him, relishing the affection. Mycroft's fingers drifted over his pectoral, the pads of his fingers dragging across his nipples, still sensitive from Mycroft's attention from the night previous.

Morning sex wasn't unheard of between them- but not usually after a night spent so actively engaged.

“You're in a mood,” John said wonderingly, but stopped himself when Mycroft's face tightened fractionally before deliberately smoothing out. Something must have gone wrong with his “business trip,” John thought, and sympathetically leaned over and gave Mycroft a loving kiss. “There's no hurry,” he murmured. “Coffee first, yeah?”

Mycroft said nothing, but when John crawled out of the bed Mycroft made a small noise that was strange enough to make John turn and stare at him in confusion.

Mycroft pasted on a fake looking smile. “It's just-” he began. “I love you, John.”

Now John really was confused. It wasn't that Mycroft didn't make him feel loved, but after being with his partner for a year in a half, John thought he could count on one hand the number of times Mycroft had actually told him he loved him. They just weren't the type of men who talked about feelings much.

“I love you too,” he said, beginning to feel more than a little concerned. Things must have gone _very_ wrong on his business trip. But he wouldn't pry. It was an unspoken rule of their relationship that Mycroft's work was leagues above John's security clearance (in the same way that the earth and the sun were rather far apart) and their relationship could only work if John knew his boundaries.

“Danishes too,” he said firmly, thinking that for once Mycroft needed a little indulgence.

He'd think about the way Mycroft had looked at him as he left the room, later. The despair in his eyes, as though he'd never see John again. Or rather, as though he'd never see the John that loved him again.

**

“I've seen you look better, mate,” Greg said, his sharp brown eyes taking in John's haggard appearance; his cheap, wrinkled clothing and the deep purple shadows under his eyes. “You look... well, a bit like one of Sherlock's homeless network, actually.”

John grimaced at the mention of Sherlock and sat down opposite Greg. The clothes were charity shop wares, because John's bank account was not flush, despite his part time work at the clinic. And with the prospect of finding a flat he could afford in London he'd been loath to waste money on clothing. For once he'd regretted always insisting on paying his own way at the posh restaurants and hotels Mycroft preferred. 

“That's not so far off,” he admitted. “I've been kipping on Harry's sofa and all my clothes are still at...” he voice tailed off at the last moment, unable to say Mycroft's name. 

He'd expected for Mycroft to have his belongings packed and sent to Harry's for weeks now, and when they hadn't appeared a small, hopeful part of him had wondered if Mycroft had wanted to see him again; to force John to come and retrieve them himself. 

It had been two weeks since Sherlock's public return to life and three weeks since John had gone down to the kitchen to fetch coffee and found Sherlock smugly polishing off the last of the danishes with his feet propped up on the dining room table and a delighted grin on his thin face. 

The memory still made acid churn in his stomach. 

“I'll have to start looking for a new place soon. Shit.” Greg was silent for too long and John conjured up a painful smile. “Who'd want to flat share with me, right?” he said, though his awkward joke fell flatly between them.

“So...” Greg said, his eyebrows tilted mournfully. “You haven't. Um. Talked to him? Er, them? Either?”

John scowled and began to shred the paper napkin in his hands, a small vent for his anger and frustration. “No,” he snapped. Then a thought occurred to him. “Have you?” he asked, a little too eager.

“Sherlock's been around,” Greg said cautiously. “He brought Molly around to a crime scene, once. Molly's a lovely girl and all, but she's really more comfortable around, er, corpses, I reckon. I think... he misses you. Bit sad, really, Sherlock at a crime scene without you. Doesn't seem right. And I think Mycroft picked him up a few times- at least it was definitely his car, at any rate.”

John silently snarled, but said nothing, just mulled it over. The idea of being replaced by Molly didn't quite sit right with him either, if he was being honest, but he'd choke himself on the peanuts sitting next to his perspiring pint before admitting it. “Well, he'll find some other idiot to dog his footsteps, I'm sure. Perhaps one of his precious homeless network,” he snarled, unable to forget the knowledge that dozens of London's drifters had known of Sherlock's fake suicide while _he_ hadn't been trusted with the information.

Despite himself, however, he was intrigued that Mycroft was picking Sherlock up from crime scenes, or at least providing transportation. Did that mean Sherlock was still living with Mycroft? And why the sudden cessation of brotherly warfare? 

Greg thoughtfully traced the droplets on his own drink. “And... Mycroft? Have you given him a chance to explain himself? Maybe if you just talk to him-” he began tentatively, because he was a good friend and was willing to ask the tough questions.

“Don't even talk to me about that... that...” John interrupted, his hands beginning to fist. Somehow Mycroft's betrayal cut the worst of all because Mycroft had _been_ there through it all, seen John at his lowest and most grief stricken. He'd seen the pain and months of therapy John had endured, how close he'd been to hopelessness. The PTSD. The nightmares. He'd seen it all, professed to love John, and he could have fixed it with one word. One little confession. “You can't even imagine...”

Greg's eyebrows lifted in mocking surprise. “I can't imagine betrayal? John, my wife had an affair with our daughter's gym teacher. I reckon I know a thing or two about betrayal,” he pointed out wryly.

John had the decency to look ashamed. “Ah, right. Sorry, I forgot about that.”

“Lucky you,” Greg said ironically, and lifted his glass in a salute before taking a long drink. 

John rallied, feeling like he'd found a kindred spirit among all his well meaning acquaintances (and one exasperated sister) who seemed to think he should give Mycroft a second chance. “Then you understand why I can't talk to him. I mean, you divorced your wife. Some things you just can't recover from.” Even saying it, though, made John feel a little dizzy with despair. He was so hurt it was almost like losing Sherlock over again, and yet he missed Mycroft so much it was a physical pain. 

Greg lifted a shoulder and quirked up a bitter half smile. “It wasn't the cheating that caused our divorce- that was just a symptom. She just didn't love me anymore, and to be honest I didn't either. There just wasn't anything left. The question you have to ask yourself is do you still love him and does he still love you, and is there anything left worth salvaging?”

John stared at him open mouthed, until Greg rolled his eyes and signaled for another beer. “Can you tell I've spent some time in marriage counseling?” 

*

A part of him wanted to tell the cab driver to turn around, but John was no coward. He was still angry, _God_ was he angry. But Lestrade's words had struck a chord with him.

John was under no illusion that he might surprise Mycroft, and sure enough when he approached the front door it opened in anticipation of his arrival, revealing Mycroft. Like John he looked tired and weary with gaunt cheeks and hollow eyes. His back was straight and his clothing impeccable, however, and the timid smile he gave John did wonders for brightening his complexion.

“John, please. Come in.” Mycroft stepped aside to let him in and John warily stepped past him- and straight into Sherlock who hovered eagerly behind his brother, clad in slinky pajamas and an artfully draped robe. His eyes still had a trace of purple under them and his nose was slightly swollen from where John had head butted him, but his eyes peeked out brightly through the faded bruises.

Mycroft's suit jacket was covering it, but John bet he still bore the remnants of the bruise John's elbow had given him when he'd tried to pull John off Sherlock.

Mycroft spun on his brother, his composure melting away in that way that only Sherlock could provoke. “I told you to go to your laboratory!” he hissed.

“He might have been here to see me,” Sherlock said haughtily, but John didn't miss the hopeful, vulnerable way he looked over at John. It made John suddenly feel like crying. He inhaled sharply, feeling like his heart was breaking.

“Laboratory?” he croaked instead. He was fairly certain he'd have noticed a laboratory in the year and a half he'd lived there, even if the old house had far more rooms than John felt it right for any single residence to have. 

“Not up to my standards, yet. Still in the developmental stage,” Sherlock said.

John remembered the experiments in the tiny, filthy kitchen at Baker Street. “You have standards?” he asked wonderingly. And then another part of his statement dawned on him. “ _Yet?_ ” he asked, this time directing the question to Mycroft.

Mycroft, looking decidedly ruffled, shot a murderous look at Sherlock. “Nothing has been decided, Sherlock.”

“Don't be ridiculous, John won't mind. And it will be a dream come true for you, having me under your thumb. Mrs Hudson has new lodgers,” he said, as an aside to John, his tone indicating indignation that their previous landlady had not kept the flat vacant in his memory. “And Mycroft has enough rooms for a dozen brothers _and_ their laboratories. It was a natural solution.” 

“Wait, wait. You actually _want_ to live with Mycroft?”

Sherlock opened his mouth, and then shut it.

Mycroft answered for him. “He wants to live with you,” he said, and Sherlock did not disagree with him, which was as good as an admission. It was rather a lot to take in and John had to gulp a little and stare at the wall.

“And you're so sure I'm coming back?” he asked, finally. 

“I'm not sure of anything,” Mycroft answered simply, his smile soft and sad. “You always surprise me, John.”

“I may never trust you again,” John said. “Either of you,” he said pointedly, not letting Sherlock off the hook.

“I know,” Mycroft responded while Sherlock did his best to appear humble and contrite.

“I- it's just. You- both of you. You were all I had. You were the only two people I could count on and now I realize I was alone all along, and-” He'd meant to be strong and aloof and to his horror he could hear the creak in his voice. Hopelessness swamped him. He shook his head at the brothers and spun on his heel, grappling for the door knob and rushing back out into the chilly afternoon air. The taxi had gone and he began to walk briskly down the sidewalk, knowing he'd be followed but unable to be still.

Sure enough he could hear swift footsteps as much longer legs caught up with him. “John, please, come back,” Mycroft said, his voice no longer even attempting to sound composed.

“John.” A hand touched his arm and John slowed but didn't shake him off. “The car, then. It's- here. We'll talk.”

John watched him stride up to familiar black car that hugged the curb. The window rolled down to reveal the driver (/bodyguard/ninja/MI5 agent?) who looked out curiously. 

“Get out,” Mycroft ordered, and though the driver lifted his eyebrows, he did as he was told. 

“John,” Mycroft said, a hint of a plea in his voice as he held open the back door for John. It made John uncomfortable to be in an enclosed space with Mycroft, but it was better than having the argument where anyone could hear and infinitely better than having Sherlock as a witness.

John slid into the back seat and watched as Mycroft came in behind him, settling on the other side. The driver still hovered on the sidewalk, his eyes darting this way and that, but John knew the tinted windows obscured them entirely. 

“Mycroft, I just don't know how you could have done this to me,” he cried, his voice full of anguish he could no longer conceal. “Sherlock I can almost understand- he's a emotionally impaired arsehole who is self-centered enough to think I'd be impressed by his cleverness in concealing this from me for two years. But _you._ You were there! You saw everything and you just let me suffer, let me think my best friend had- had- For two goddamn years! How could you?”

Mycroft was leaning forward in his seat, his whole body stretching towards John. “John, please. Your security level-”

John slammed his fist down on the seat beside him and let out a strangled scream. “Half of London knew. Don't pretend that's the reason. FUCK MY SECURITY LEVEL!”

Mycroft was looking far from composed now. “No!” he said forcefully, his own voice almost as loud as John's. “Your security and Sherlock's security are the two most important things in the world. And if it meant losing you, then it was a sacrifice I was willing to make. As long as you were safe I was willing to let you hate me forever. Don't ask me to apologize. I won't. One sign that you knew- the smallest betrayal of knowledge and I was not confident even I could protect you from Moriarty's revenge.”

John's chest was heaving. His brain felt too busy to slow down enough and form words. 

“Why should I believe you?” he asked hoarsely. “You've been lying to me for two years.”

Mycroft spread his hands. “You just have to tru-” he began, but bit the words off. He looked at John. “You don't have to trust me, John. Just love me.” 

John bowed his head. “I do love you,” he admitted, and when Mycroft cautiously reached out to touch him John did not protest. Sensing the softening of John's resolve, Mycroft pulled him into a hug that was intense enough John had to sprawl across his lap.

“It's not going to be easy,” John said, meaning that forgiving Mycroft wouldn't be easy. Living with Sherlock again wouldn't be easy. Feeling secure again wouldn't be easy. Months if not years of emotional progress had been torn down and John knew it wouldn't be the work of a hug, no matter how warm, to repair the damage. But he loved them, both of them. When there was a Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes in the world, John simply couldn't imagine himself anywhere but at their side.

“You realize he's going to be impossible to live with and will know every time we have a shag and he'll contaminate the kitchen and play his blasted violin at all hours. He'll have clients in and out, your housekeeper will hate him- and don't even get me started on your army of ninjas. He'll give them fits. We'll never get a moments' peace.”

Mycroft's arms were warm and strong and John could feel the minute trembling of his body, from strong emotion or relief, he didn't know. “I know,” Mycroft said in such a pleased way that John couldn't help but smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft, John and Sherlock all living together in harmony, you ask? Wait, wait, wait, just hear me out. My head canon for these three is they each have two soul mates. Sherlock's is John (platonic) and his work, Mycroft's is John and his country, and John's is Mycroft and Sherlock (platonic). In this way they go together pretty well. Mycroft would never be happy devoting himself entirely to John when his country needs him, and John would never be happy without Sherlock. And so I just helped them along by putting them all together under one roof. Can't you just imagine how crazy that will be? It makes me happy just thinking about it.


	4. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story probably didn't need an epilogue, but I felt the urge to write a smutty little follow up anyway. I wrote it partially because so many people have been... I don't know how to phrase it... we'll say skeptical about the three of them living together. Yes, it would be chaos, yes, Sherlock would be a nightmare to live with. But... okay, maybe I can't justify it, but I love the idea of it anyway. This epilogue does nothing to convince anyone that the three of them living together is a good idea, but I still like it.

John was crunched in a ball with his arse in the air and his cheek pressed hard into the bedspread underneath him, his breath coming short from excitement and constriction. Mycroft's torso was draped over his back and his cock was so far up his arse it felt like a medical miracle. He was running his hands up John's arms and shoulders, down his sides and occasionally dipping between his knees to fondle John's rock hard cock. 

Mycroft was murmuring in his ear and pressing kisses to the back of his neck and his shoulders and all John could do was pant harshly and moan while his lover thrust ponderously into him. The head of his cock was rubbing against the bedspread, leaving a slick puddle and it was just enough sensation to make his toes curl in pleasure without making him come. 

John shifted and tucked a pillow into his arm so he could breathe more easily and Mycroft paused and leaned over to kiss as close to John's mouth as he could reach.

"I love you," Mycroft murmured, and John smiled a little wryly. Since Sherlock's return and John's somewhat reluctant forgiveness of the two brothers, Mycroft had been more generous with his affection. John couldn't say he minded, on the whole, even if it was a touch manipulative. Loving and knowing the Holmes brothers as he did, John had become somewhat accustomed to being manipulated. 

"I love you too," he said back happily, turning his head further to give Mycroft better access to his mouth while he pumped slowly and pleasurably into him from behind.

It felt like the beginning of a long, luxurious fuck; a welcome home fuck after a week long absence, and John was arching his back and moving his hips into the motion of Mycroft's prick, enjoying the feeling of the stretch, when an outraged shriek of noise from without their bedroom made John freeze and Mycroft make a soft, impatient noise of disgust. The shrill noise came again, a little further away but still discordant and frankly, bad for the mood. Sherlock, clearly sawing away at his violin in the sitting room- just close enough to be disruptive and obviously deliberate.

"I told you he'd know every time we had a shag," John said in despair, trying to fight his blush. Years of living with Sherlock had defeated most of his sense of privacy, but being interrupted by your lover's brother _while_ he had his cock up your arse was more than a little disconcerting. John twisted under Mycroft so he could grope on the bedside table for his phone. "He probably wants me to go with him and dig in dumpsters or some nonsense," he snarled, easily imagining Sherlock's utter disregard for John's feelings in his own selfishness.

"You're texting him _now_?" Mycroft asked in horror, but grew curious as John's thumbs pecked over the buttons. "What are you telling him?" 

"'Play something nice or I start screaming your brother's name,'" he quoted with a smirk taking the place of the scowl on his face. It would serve him right if he did, the wanker. It was Mycroft and John, after all, who'd generously opened their home to him. The least Sherlock could do was give them the illusion of solitude while they attempted to have some intimate time together after Mycroft's week long business trip.

"John," Mycroft said reproachfully, though with a hint of amusement in his voice. "You're going to scream my name either way."

John had to turn around properly to give Mycroft a pleased, incredulous look at the unexpected cheek. "Saucy," he laughed, the reached back to slap Mycroft's arse. "Boast like that you're going to have to prove."

Mycroft pulled back and flipped John over, lifting his legs into arms and pulled his arse up. John gasped, his smile falling away and his mouth parting in surprise. Mycroft took time only to pull a pillow under John's arse before he was shoving his cock back into John's wet, grasping hole. It was a shock after the gentle thrusting before and John yelped, a little pain and a lot of pleasure.

"Oh! Fuck," he yelped when Mycroft unrelentingly withdrew and fucked back in, his long cock splitting John open and ramming against his prostate. It wasn't often that Mycroft was aggressive in bed- his style usually leaned more towards the sensual and luxurious, but John liked this unexpected roughness. "Mycroft," he moaned and reached up to run his fingernails lightly down his chest. He tugged at his pale pink nipples and Mycroft's nostrils flared and his eyes darkened. 

"Touch yourself," Mycroft commanded, as his arms were straining with the weight of John's legs. John obeyed with alacrity. He wrapped a hand around his slick cock and began to pump it in time with Mycroft's thrusts. With his other hand he reached up and began to toy with his nipples until they were tight and red and aching all while Mycroft watched with dark, hungry eyes.

"Mycroft, I-" John gasped, knowing he should slow down, knowing his endurance was not as strong as Mycroft's, especially when his prostate was being stimulated so aggressively. Mycroft's hair was mussed and his neck and face were flushing with exertion and pleasure. "Are you close, are you-" A particularly well aimed thrust made John see stars. His words trailed off into a harsh grunt and the first expostulation of Mycroft's name that approached a scream. 

Unexpectedly Mycroft's eyes were squeezing shut in that way that always signaled his orgasm and his mouth parted around the most delicious sounds and John could feel his last, powerful thrusts all through his body, suddenly wet and sloppy with come. John reached up and caressed Mycroft's nipples with his thumbs and felt the fine trembling of Mycroft's body as his muscles clenched and relaxed in orgasm. 

"John," Mycroft growled through gritted teeth, drawing out the vowels until the name was more vocalization than word. He pushed his hips in weakening thrusts as his orgasm crested and abated and then finally stopped, his chest heaving and his muscles twitching. With a faint, apologetic look, Mycroft withdrew and gently lowered John's legs back down to the mattress.

"I apologize," he said, a little too formally. "That was- you were very stimulating." He looked a little embarrassed- perhaps he prided himself on almost always bringing John off before coming himself, but John was helplessly turned on and more than a little pleased to make Mycroft lose control. 

John was close, though, and not to be distracted. He lifted a knee suggestively and Mycroft took the hint, curling down and replacing two thin, long fingers where his cock had been. The lube and Mycroft's come made John's hole slippery and when he began to thrust the digits into him it was smooth and he found his prostate on his first stroke. And then Mycroft leaned down and began to lick at the rim of John's hole and John really did scream his name then as his hand stripped his cock furiously and Mycroft's fingers attacked his prostate and his tongue lapped up the come and lube that leaked from his anus. It was filthy and _marvelous_. He couldn't see, but the mental image and the sensation was enough to have him curling up and coming in frantic pulses over his fist, Mycroft's name on his lips.

John thrust his hips and squirmed back onto Mycroft's fingers a few more times before his lover seemed to instinctively know he'd reached the point where stimulation was no longer needed and gently lowered him back down to the mattress. Mycroft settled down beside him, close enough so the length of their bodies brushed, and they lay smiling and breathing heavily, until the shivering of John's muscles eased and he began to be aware of the drying fluids coating his body. In that omniscient way of his, Mycroft rose and returned with a wet flannel and tenderly wiped up the mess that seemed to cover every inch of John.

John enjoyed the ministration, but batted Mycroft away when he tried, unsuccessfully, to wipe away the traces of dried lube between the web of John's fingers. "That's just going to make it slimy again. I'm going to have to take another shower before-" he began, then stopped guiltily when he realized what he'd been about to say. He shot Mycroft an apologetic look and found his lover looking faintly amused.

"Before you go searching through dumpsters with my brother?" he asked, his voice eloquent of resignation. 

"That might not be what he wanted," John said weakly. The noises from the sitting room had gone ominously silent, indicating Sherlock was either sulking in his room or had already left. During the week that Mycroft had been gone John had rather become accustomed to living independently again- or at least, only taking one Holmes' needs into consideration. Sherlock had a way of growing spoiled quickly.

"You know what, he's a wanker. Let him dig through dumpsters on his own," he said stoutly. "He's had me all week, now it's your turn."

Mycroft turned away to muffle his indulgent smile before turning back around and kissing John softly, sweetly, his mouth fresh from a recent cleaning. "Go on, then. I'll be home for a few weeks," he promised. "Keep him out of a trouble, won't you?".


End file.
